


Vigenère

by hitlikehammers



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Tag, F/M, Gen, Post-Beginning of the End, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil sees it. Of course he does.</p><p>Blood brothers was pushing it, obviously, but of course he sees it: behind his eyes, glowing with the pulse of his blood, stitched against the fabric of his dreams.</p><p>He hears the way it whispers to him. He’s heard it since the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigenère

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weepingnaiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/gifts).



> Unbeta'd ficlet for the lovely [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad), who generally just deserves all the love, all the time <3
> 
> Titled for the [encryption cypher](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vigen%C3%A8re_cipher), because, y'know. Codes and alien languages or whatever. And stuff.

He sees it. Of course he does.

Blood brothers was pushing it, obviously, but of course he fucking sees it: behind his eyes, glowing with the pulse of his blood, stitched against the fabric of his dreams.

He hears the way it whispers to him. He’s heard it since the start.

But the thing is, Phil’s always been a pragmatist when it comes to the work, to the job. He’s swayed a bit, in recent times, yes, but on the whole, he focuses on the bigger picture. He deals with the cards as they’re dealt.

And he sees potentials not in terms of isolated gain, but in terms of incurred potential risk.

So when the universe murmurs in the back of his mind, a counterpoint to the beat of his heart: when he hears the soft breath of what could be, the immensity, the great unknown of infinitude, he hears it. He understands it. He even lets himself feel it, relish the heat of it, the overwhelming weight of its perfection.

Terrifying.

And that, really, is what draws the divide, because where John was always willing to sacrifice the next stupid lamb to the slaughter for the sake of a leg up, Phil was never that kind.

Won’t ever _be_ that kind, no matter what alien juice they pump him with.

And where he’d cautioned against the GH-325 for fear of its effects, the risks of granting this potential more weight than it’s worth, of opening a box that even Pandora would have shied from: maybe it’s a calculated gamble, and maybe the idea of being filled with the cosmos and breathing out the dust of stars is tempting, in an objective sense.

But Phil? He’s never wanted that.

What Phil’s always wanted was to protect the innocent. What Phil’s always wanted was to do what’s right.

What Phil’s come to want is to protect the people he cares most for, the people he loves.

His _family_.

So he etches the lines, the orbs, onward and onward not because he can’t help himself, not because it consumes him, but because if he’s going to rebuild his world, he can’t balance it on half-truths, on disclosures made part-way. He etches because protection can’t be offered best if all the facts aren’t known, and he’s been given an opportunity, a glimpse at what’s coming: friend or foe.

He’s been offered the view through a window, and if it’ll help them, if it will help him to _protect_ , then he’s going to damn well look.

And when Melinda finds him, the dust bright on his shirt in the dark and his fingers freshly callused, she doesn’t ask if he’s okay, doesn’t grab for the blade in his hand, doesn’t stop him. 

She doesn’t have to. His breath is even; his eyes are clear.

And when she wraps her arms around his waist, loose so he can lean back, she doesn’t speak, and Phil’s grateful.

He’s grateful for her.

“Fitz?” he asks, because while Phil can see his name in the etchings, can read his fate, he doesn’t trust it.

Nothing’s set in stone.

“No change,” Melinda sighs, turns her face into Phil’s neck, her lips warm there, soft when she breathes.

“We’ll need everyone we can find,” Phil murmurs, lets the give of her body welcome his own. “Everyone we can trust.”

“I’ve been in touch with Maria,” she tells him, and he doesn’t cover her hands on him so much as laces them with his own. “Stark’s getting the band back together.”

Phil huffs something like a laugh. 

“All the old lineup?” he asks, and it’s not without a tightness, because his family here is secure, for now, but his family there, his first team—

It’s time, though. It’s time to break the news, to stop hiding. It’s time to fight the good fight once more, as best they can.

Many hands may not make light work, not of _this_ , but Phil’s damn sure they’ll make it better.

They’re a part of something bigger, after all.

“Phil and the Avengers,” Melinda chuckles against the space behind his ear, and Phil doesn’t fight how nice it feels, how right. “S’got a ring to it.”

“Good,” he whispers, and lets his eyes slip closed, lets her lead him back to his room, back to their bed, and it is. 

It’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> On [tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if you dig that sort of thing.


End file.
